When I Believed In Santa Claus

I remember exactly where I stood in my kitchen as I told my friend, Courtney, "Well I don't believe in the Tooth Fairy or the Easter Bunny, but I'm not sure about Santa Claus."

My parents are notorious for forgetting that our teeth were hiding anxiously under our pillows. I had taken to writing notes on scraps of paper and taping them--facing out--onto the window. You know, just in case she just happened to fly by. Then there was the fact that all the richer kids in my school bragged about getting twenty dollar bills under their pillows. I hadn't even SEEN a twenty dollar bill, let alone owned one. Suddenly my excitement over having my very own silver dollar seemed silly. I couldn't even buy a Ninja Turtle with it. It didn't take long to put two and two together: a real fairy would be more scrupulous.


The Easter Bunny took a little longer. Easter had been my favorite holiday. It had the early morning excitement of gifts and surprises, with the creativity of dying your own eggs just the way you want them and not sharing them with your siblings, with the shrewdness-showboating of finding things someone had meant to hide from you. Also, there were Cadbury eggs. Santa and his plain ol' walnuts just couldn't compare. But slowly, the excitement began to erode. A bunny? Carrying all this heavy stuff? And how could he get an egg on top of the clock? And how does he get in, anyway? Problem was, there weren't a jillion movies, books, and old-timey newspaper articles to reassure me, give me insider knowledge, or promise that the non-believers can't hear the sleigh bell. That's all saved for Christmas. So Easter was a slow dwindling. I don't remember going from believing to not. Reason just kind of seeped its way in.


But Christmas was different. Each knock-down of Santa Claus was like a little slap to the brain, strong enough that I remember those little moments even now. Like the conversation with Courtney. Or the time I pulled my older sister, Katie, into the bathroom, closed the door, and demanded to know if she believed in Santa Claus. "No," she said. "Phew. Okay. Neither do I," I exhaled. Finally, the truth from someone reputable. I had been lied to for so long by all the people I thought I could trust, I didn't know where to turn. Yet I also knew to keep my mouth shut about it. This was private conversation, not meant for the impressionable ears of John or Hannah who still had a chance at believing. While still unsure myself of the truth, I understood that this was an okay lie, a fun lie, a lie meant for the smallest among us. It never upset me to find out that I'd been lied to. Maybe because I was happy to be on the other side with the adults. The Truth-Knowers.

It feels like a decade later, although it was probably just the following year, my mom came into my room and asked to borrow my green pen "for signing Santa's presents" she said. "You're old enough to know by now," she said, smiling. I smiled back. Of course. Of course I knew. Duh. Pff. Silly. And even though I thought I did, even though I'd already gotten the confirmation from Katie, it was that moment that made it reality. There was no chance now that, like the movies said, I had simply stopped believing. Tim Allen would never give me the weenie whistle to make be believe again. It was a fact: there is no Santa Claus, and my mother was responsible for the swirly green handwriting on all my favorite presents.


There is a magic lost that you never get back when you stop believing. Waking up that morning with proof--tangible proof--that magic exists (and it ate your cookies) is an amazing feeling. It might even be the first strong emotion I ever remember having. The four of us would sit at the top of the stairs of our split-level, surveying the gifts now overflowing from under the tree. Trying to guess whose gifts were whose, and who was the lucky duck to get the one enormous, wrapped present inevitably laying there. Finally, after 25 days of my eyes playing tricks on me, my stocking was definitely full this time. And look! He gave Rudolph the carrot we left, and he even left a note! I'm not sure what kept us from running down immediately. It might have just been our parents demanding we stay there until the coffee had brewed. Whatever it was, I never minded sitting there for a few minutes. After all, we'd been waiting for this moment all year; why let it pass by so quickly?


Of course, it's always nice to get presents, even when you know who really gave them to you. But those first few years have something special to them. It's the only time when you know--for a fact, with proof--that someone is out there who knows you intimately, and is watching over you. It's an innocence you never get back, and a feeling that many people spend their whole lives striving to find again.

A Hand To Hold Onto

Or: "What I Remember From Indian Princesses."


When I was little, I was in something called Indian Princesses. It was a program put on through the YMCA to help build father/daughter relationships, and the glue that tied it together was a Native American theme.

I decided to write this post because I can't seem to find anything online about Indian Princesses, except a few remedial articles arguing the racial issues behind it. So I've written what I remember. Partly for posterity and partly so that people can tell me what the hell was going on. I was six, afterall.

QUICK OVERVIEW:

The program was something like this: fathers and daughters got together once a month in a small group. They were assigned a specific tribe name--ours was the Winnebago. There were also the Sioux, Cree, Blackfoot...you get the picture. Each tribe had their own costume. They were totally authentic...by which I mean they were not at all authentic. Our costume had jeans with bright red fringe running up the sides, a white turtleneck, and a rectangular red poncho. With more fringe.

The tribes gathered to discuss their lives, made simple crafts, that kind of thing. Then a few times a year, all the tribes would get together for a weekend retreat and do father/daughter activities together, all to varying degrees of Native American themes (which I'll get into later.)

A little history: Indian Princess actually started with Indian Guides, a father/son program formed in 1926. For your point of reference, the Indian Guides were featured in the 1995 JTT classic film, "Man of The House".

So to make sure we're all on the same page:
Father/son: Indian Guides.
Father/daughter: Indian Princesses.
Mother/daughter: Indian Maidens (which I learned about while researching.)

We won't get into the gender implications of these names, but suffice it to say...this was not a PC program. And I apologize for my liberal use of "Indian" over "Native American", but that was its name. Apparently the program is still running, but in a new form called "Adventure Guides" and "Adventure Princesses" and without the Native American themes. But this was how things were, as late as the 1990s when I was involved. In fact, according to the interwebs, the "Indian" theme didn't end until 2003. Was it racist? Absolutely. Did I know that? Absolutely not. Should our fathers have known better? Probably. But these were also men raised on Cowboys-and-Indians movies. Personally, I give them credit for going from shooting Native Americans to trying to honor them. I'm glad it's been changed, but I think of Indian Princesses like a Michael Scott lecture: good intentions...but somehow Tom Hanks ends up on the wall twice and everyone feels awkward.

So those are the straight facts about Indian Princesses, but it doesn't get at what this program was all about. So I'm here to give you Indian Princesses as I remember it...as a 6-year-old.

THE MEETINGS:

• Once a month, our tribe of about 8 pairs of fathers and daughters got together to...I don't remember. Talk? Draw? Eat cookies? What I'm saying is: I don't really remember what we did. I was just glad to have time with my dad and Katie. It made me feel grown up.

• We all had Native American names. I didn't like the pressure of coming up with one on my own, so I think Katie and my parents came up with it for me. My dad's name had to do with Horse, so Katie's and mine were Pony-related. Running Pony maybe? Something like that. I remember feeling like it wasn't quite the right fit for me, but was too shy to ask to change it.

• I do remember singing in a circle at the end of the meeting. We sang Taps--like the actual lyrics of Taps. We lifted our arms into the air and then back down when we sang it. It ended with the words "God is night" so I assumed it was a bedtime song. (Later, I learned the words were actually "God is nigh" and my mind was totally blown.)

• There were also sew-on badges. I think you earned them for going on retreats, unlike Boy and Girl Scouts, where you have to do stuff to earn them. So clearly this was way more awesome.


THE RETREATS:

As I explained, once (or twice?) a year, all the tribes traveled to a retreat center for added bonding and fun and friendly competition (which I even hated back then). I wish I could explain these retreats better as an adult, but all I have are my memories as seen through a small child. So here is what I've got:

• Like I said, our tribe was the Winnebago. Whenever all the tribes got together during the retreats, the other girls would make fun of the name. But they didn't mock "Winnebago" because of its associations to motor homes. No, they made fun of it because it sounded like "win a bagel." I was annoyed by their mocking. Not that I was embarrassed of the name, but I didn't think it really warranted the mockery. Sure, if our tribe name was Poop or Butt or Stupid, then you can make fun of us. But bagels are delicious. What's so wrong with sounding like one? Anyway, we got them back by saying that "Cree" sounded like "pee" so...game, set, match.

• There was one big night with games...like...games...okay clearly I don't remember what that was about. Was there a bouncy castle, or am I dreaming up memories now? Someone help me out with this.

• There was a bonfire one night where we'd do faux-Native American chants and songs. At one point, the designated "chief" for the weekend would wear a big chief headdress and call up to the spirits. He'd ask the spirits to send us a sign Then he'd secretly throw something into the fire to make sparks fly. I was in total awe of this, though a little confused about what it meant for my Sunday School lessons. I am now mildly horrified by the whole thing, especially after having gone to a college whose mascot, "Chief Illiniwek", was ousted my senior year. He was criticized for his inauthenticities, such as using chicken instead of eagle feathers in his headdress. I'm pretty sure the Indian Princess chief's feathers were made of polyester and dyed fluorescent blue.

• There was a Native American-looking doll called Puddin' Face...or Puddin' Cup...Puddin' Head? I think it was Puddin' Head. I assume it was also racist. But the doll was part of a game, where you sneak into other tribe's cabins and whoever ended up with her at the end of the retreat lost. The suspense of the Puddin' Doll gave me stomach ulcers. I was terrified of her.

• One retreat had an outdoor climbing wall. The guy in charge of the wall was TOTALLY old and mature. He was in college AND he had long hair. He was studying to be an engineer. I thought that sounded fun, but I wasn't sure why all the dads thought he had to be really good at science and math just to drive a train. True facts.

• Each tribe slept in one cabin, which meant all the dads got the bottom bunks and all the girls slept in the top bunks. This. Was. Awesome. Top bunks rule and they're really exciting. The poor dads never got the top bunks. I'm sure they were very disappointed by this.

• One retreat had a rickety old toboggan that was at least 3 stories high. It was terrifying.

• During dinner, when all the tribes were in one place, the daughters would BEG their fathers to bellow out into the cafeteria, "WHO'S THE BEST TRIBE IN THE NATIOOOOONNNN?!?!?!" And then all the daughters would yell--nay--SCREAM their own tribe name. This was another very historically accurate aspect of the retreat.

• One retreat had archery. I was terrible at archery. It hurt my fingers and the string was too hard to pull. This was NOT a father/daughter bonding experience. This was a father/daughter getting increasingly frustrated experience.

• On the very last day, there was some kind of prize giveaway. There was a table with all kinds of prizes at the front that the dads would buy or make, and the girls were called up to choose a prize. I have no idea how they decided the order. One of our dads made handmade puzzles once. And one time I think we spray-painted buckets and told everyone they were chairs. One year, I took too long deciding what I wanted, panicked, and picked a bedazzled mirror. I cried the whole ride home.

And that's all I've got. I'm worried none of this made sense to anyone, or was just really boring to people who were not in the program. But hopefully there are some ladies out there whose memories are jogged. Really what I want to get across was that, despite the stereotypes of Native Americans I had to unlearn later, I'm glad it was part of my childhood. I had fun. In a family of 6, it was a time that I got to spend with just my sister and my dad. And those are the kinds of memories you learn to cherish later, even if they come with horror-inducing dolls appearing in your cabin as if from nowhere.


So?! Comment please! Tell me there were other people in Princesses or Guides who have a better memory than I do and can fill in the gaps. Specifically: Puddin' Head, The Game Night, and the Prize Table. These are my great mysteries right now.

3 Things That Made Sense When I Grew Up

I was a pretty innocent child. I had little interest in making trouble (apparently when I was a toddler I was Hell on Legs but I mean AFTER that.) As I grew up, my fantasies with boys involved a LOT of snuggling and very little else. The occasional fantasy make-out session was not unheard of, but it was likely in a library or after a rousing reenactment of Monty Python and the Holy Grail. I watched Friends, but mostly because I thought Chandler had a funny way of talking, not because I wanted to emulate their lifestyle. Besides, they were ADULTS. They were, like....in their TWENTIES.

So I don't understand why people--people MY age--get up in arms about the shows kids these days are watching. I don't think we give kids enough credit for their innocence.

Actual Conversation:
Girl: Have you seen iCarly?! They have such adult conversations It's forcing kids to become older than they are!
Me: Yeah, maybe. Then again, I used to watch Night Court.

It's true. I did. And damn me if I understood a single word those people were saying, but I LOVED that show. Or maybe I just loved John Larroquette. Hmm. Regardless, every generation thinks that the generation younger than them is going to Hell in a handbasket because of the shows and movies and news they're surrounded by. (PS that phrase always makes me think of this image)



Awwww! Handbaskets are so cute!

Wait, where was I? Oh right, how everyone always thinks kids are screwed. But really, I think we forget that kids do not have the knowledge, experience, and life biases that we do. 3/4 of the stuff thrown at them goes over their heads. And the other fourth gets taken in, processed, and decided upon. Because they are human beings, not robots. But most of it? Most of that "adult" stuff we let them watch? It's called "adult" for a reason--kids don't get it.

If you don't believe me, here are three things I simply DID NOT GET as a child.

1. Grease



I don't know why Grease is considered such a family-friendly movie. It boggles my mind. That is a dirty, DIRTY movie. The thing is, though, I had no idea it was dirty as a kid. All I knew was there were a lot of parts in the movie I didn't understand.

Eventually (but while still young) I was informed that the movie was kind of dirty and I started looking for things. But with my innocent, untainted mind, I still had no idea what was going on. Remember the scene when Rizzo climbs down the drainpipe to meet the boys and she says "eat your heart out" to Danny? Well, from what I could tell, Danny responds "Stop your sex just ain't my style." Which...I guess made sense. I didn't really get what it meant. Then one day it hit me--I wasn't even watching the movie, I just thought about it for AN second and realized he had said "sloppy seconds ain't my style."

And like that, all the pieces of Grease started coming together. I started thinking about lyrics I had previously ignored or glossed over and realized what sick, twisted words were going in one ear and out the other. It became so strange to me that we all danced to "Greased Lightning" in the 6th grade. Like, we're all willing to ignore the fact that John Travolta sings "you know that ain't no sh*t, we'll be gettin' lots of t*t" just so we can punch our fists up and out. White people go crazy for dancing to Greased Lightning. "You mean we get to fist pump...IN UNISON?! And then we get to CLAP?! SIGN ME UP!" But seriously that song has nothing on Eminem for dirty, sexist lyrics. And yet children have been dancing around in their living room to that song for literally DECADES. Has Family Guy REALLY caused that much trouble?


2. Tracy Chapman, Fast Car



A lovely song about a woman who likes driving in a car with her loved one. We had this album on tape and listened to it all the time when I was about 5. This one was Katie's favorite song on the album and I thought she was SO BORING for liking it. It's about a woman driving a car! What's so great about that?! I doubt Katie, an 8-year-old suburbanite, understood that the song was about the socioeconomic issues behind a woman's lower-class life and relationship, but it took ME until I was 26 to actually listen to the lyrics and realize how much is actually in this song. Which, admittedly, is probably longer than it should have taken me. (Also, check out this great cover)


3. Gin-flavored Limes



When I was little, I loved lemons and limes. I know, I know--I was a WEIRD child. And whenever we went to my aunt's house, the adults would drink drinks with limes in them. This was as far as my understanding went. They sat around drinking drinks with limes and talking about boring adult stuff. I had too many other, more fun things to be doing. I had too many Playmobil toys that needed wheelchairs to care. But every once in a while I'd come by my parents, make sure they were talking about me, and ask for their limes.

When I finally started drinking gin (ie, like last year because I am embarrassingly un-classy) I realized then, and only then, that gin and tonics remind me of my aunt. Because I had been eating gin-soaked limes as a young child and had no idea. Was I a drunk 6-year-old? Is that why I decided to get spiked hair and a tail? The world may never know.


I'll tell you one thing that still makes no sense to me, though: Mary Poppins.



Now, don't get me wrong, I loves me some Dick Van Dyke dancing with penguins. But you have to admit, that movie makes no sense. WHY ARE THERE MEN ON A ROOF SHOOTING OFF A CANNON?! WHY DOES LAUGHING MAKE YOU FLOAT?! It's one of those things I always figured I'd understand when I got older and then I got older and realized, NOPE. That stuff is just completely insane. I guess they were trying to make a movie about a child's imagination. But it wasn't MY imagination, so I thought it was just weird.


I'd love to hear some from you guys. What did you only understand once you got older? What do you STILL not understand? I wanted to make a huge list of these but I couldn't think of very many, even though I know there are a million. So help me out! Please?

A Question About Your Childhood

Okay guys, this will be quick and painless. So the other day I met a cool group of ladies and upon shaking my hand, one girl said, "Emily! That's the name I would use when I was little and I'd make up a fake name for myself!"

And right here is where I'm assuming every guy is going, "Wait...what now, crazy?" and every girl is going "OH MY GOD YES!!!!1"

Thing is, not only could every girl remember making up a name, but we all still knew that name right then and there.

Mine was Brooke, in case you were wondering. Michelle's was Kathy, which is never not funny.

I don't really know what situation it was that we were making up names. I guess "House" or "Dolls" or "Barbies." For some reason you couldn't just be your OWN name. And you couldn't use the name they gave on the box. You had to have an entirely new persona.

I will also tell you, and this is only because I know Michelle would tell you in the comments anyway, that my alter ego was also usually physically disabled. What can I say? I wanted a challenge. Skipper and Barbie going to work in evening gowns? BORING. Brooke and Kathy trying to collect enough berries to make mud soup with only the use of one leg? ENDLESSLY fascinating.

So I'm curious:
Ladies, what was your fake name? Don't be that way, you know you had one.
Dudes, did you make up fake names, too? Or were you just "Batman and Michelangelo" or "Red Guy and Green Guy"?

Let's hear it in the comments!

Confessions of a Weddingaholic

So I'm pretty serious about this Joe guy I'm dating. He lets me lick his neck before work...how could I not be serious about him?

We're not engaged, but we talk about it for our future. I only stick around in relationships if I can look at a guy and go, "Yeah, I think I'd like to sit awkwardly in a restaurant with you for a couple decades."

I'm not engaged, but I have a confession to make: I'm a wedding planner.

Not in a horrible JLo movie way, but in the "I already know what kind of dress I want" way. Weird, right? It surprises me, too, considering my long-standing opposition with pink and frills. But when Michelle and I were little, we'd pore over two kinds of magazines: American Girl Doll and wedding. We'd plan our dream wedding with Anonymous Handsome Husband, discussing everything from the clothes to the hair to the clothes to the clothes. (We didn't really know what all went into a wedding, to be honest. But people got dressed up and we were into it.)

I decided I would wear an off-the-shoulder dress a-la Princess Jasmine, I would hold red roses, my bridesmaids would wear red dresses, and the groomsmen would wear red bow ties and red cummerbunds.

YEAH. What can I say? It was 1994, I was nine, and I had a bowl cut. Style was not really in my direct line of vision.

But the point is, I've basically been thinking about wedding details since I knew what weddings were. To me, it's a lot less about wanting to be married and a lot more about planning something pretty. It gives me the same euphoric feeling as a new Crate and Barrel catalog. "Look at THIS decanter! And THIS one! LET'S BUY ALL THE DECANTERS!!!!1"

My best defense for being the Weird Girl Planning Her Fake Wedding is that thinking about those happy little details helps me sleep. I don't know about you, but laying there in the dark is my brain's favorite time to either stress about work, or play out disastrous ways for everyone I love to die. Something about darkness really brings out the worst in my subconscious. And centerpiece planning helps. But now the details are way funkier than red cummerbunds. They look more like this:








I finally confessed all of this to Joe a few days ago. He didn't leave a Joe-shaped hole in our door, so I got a little excited. And I told him one idea I had: no bartenders. Buy booze ourselves and let our friends pour their own drinks like the adults they are. But instead of telling me that I was a freakin' genius, Joe had the AUDACITY to be rational and say that a lot of venues probably don't let you do that. And our friends might be peeved that they'd just come all the way to a wedding just to do all the grunt work. I huffed quietly and then went about my day.

And it stewed.

And finally, after Joe had left town for Detroit, I let it all out in an email.

A) Our friends would NOT be upset that they weren't waited on. They'd be happy they could have as much booze as they'd want and they'd be happy to celebrate with us and if they didn't like it then they could shoveituptheir--BREAAAAATHE, Emily.

B) I told him (because I am a CRAZY PERSON) that when he turned down my idea, he was backing my fake wedding dreams into a corner. And if I'm ever going to fall asleep thinking about flower arrangements, I'm going to need my fake wedding to flow freely.

That night on the phone, he apologized (What a great guy. Apologizing in the face of Crazy.) and said he wanted to hear more ideas. I let another one fly: For the Save The Dates, we take pictures of ourselves wearing Bill Murray masks and have it say "We're getting murray'd!"

Joe told me it was a great idea.

And that was the moment I realized....it really wasn't. It was a HORRIBLE idea. It was weird and creepy and made no sense and was a terrible pun besides. But if Joe had actually told me the truth, I would have sharpened my nails into points and then slashed him across the chest. HOW DARE YOU RUIN MY BILL MURRAY PUN DREAMS!

What I realized is this: Sure. Sometimes we need someone there to give it to us straight. To smack us across the face and tell us we're wrong. But sometimes we just need support. We need someone to be there for us when we make decisions and nod along so we can come to our own conclusions without the blinding rationale-blocker that is the Defense Mechanism. And that relates to partners as well as parents, friends, even work-associates. We all just need someone who knows when to hold 'em and when to fold 'em. When to walk away and when you run. You never count your money when you're sitting at the table. There'll be time enough for counting when the dealing's done.

So...comments anyone? Am I the only one pre-planning her dream wedding/who has horrible thoughts before bed/who emails her boyfriend because she's bad at live conversation sometimes/who gets crazy defensive about really bad ideas sometimes? I'd really like to hear your thoughts. I promise not to lash out in email form...well, I'll try.

The Truth Behind the Tootsie Pop Wrapper Star

I wish that title was actually "Tootsie, the Pop Rapper Star". But alas, I'm speaking of this:



Let me tell you all about a little girl named Emily. This little girl had a dream. And that dream was to discover that she had won a prize.

Rumor had it, back in the Olden Days of Yore, Tootsie Pops used to print the star on different places around the wrapper. If you found one with the star, consider yourself Charlie Bucket, because you just won an amazing prize: whatever the star was next to. That's right. Kids roller skating? You won roller skates. Kids playing baseball? You won a baseball set. Kids swimming in a lake? You win a lake. No matter what, you see a star, you win a prize. Just like God intended it. But sadly, by the 80s when I was ready for my free lake, Tootsie pop had discontinued the prizes and just used one standard wrapper, the star forever next to the bow and arrow (of which I should have won at least fifty by now.)

Turns out, apparently I am the only nut job to have heard/believed this story.

If anything, you all heard the rumor that if you find the star, you get a free Tootsie Pop. And some stores even did it. So it wasn't even a rumor, it was actually a thing that happened. Lucky for me, I had a know-it-all big sister who liked to mess with me for FUNZIES and told me a totally different rumor. GOD. This is just like the time in kindergarten when she told me to say "X" a million times fast and I was DUPED into saying a DIRTY WORD ON ACCIDENT. ARGH.

Apparently there was NEVER a rule for when you find the star even when the company put out the sucker in 1931. Tootsie just wanted to mess with our heads by making a kid dressed as a chief shooting a boldly out-of-place star. WELL WHAT THE HELL, TOOTSIE? What. The. Hell.

Anyway, I have no end to this story but to say how vastly disappointed I am to finally learn the ultimate truth.

And to say this: "A one? A two-hooooo! Tha-ree. *crunch* Tha-ree."

My Personal Flight of The Navigator Fantasy

When I was young, I saw this movie called Flight of The Navigator. I remember exactly three things from it:

1. A boy got lost in the woods and went on some kind of space adventure



2. Sara Jessica Parker mentioned New Coke



3. The CUTEST ALIEN EVER was in this movie.




After I saw Flight of the Navigator, I was actually PHYSICALLY angry that this creature did not exist in real life and I could not have one for my own. I mean, he had no back legs, he clung to your fingers, and he made adorable gurgling noises.

And then. I came upon this.



And I have all new hope, like I have never had before. Bless you, baby Sugar Glider. Bless you.

Emily's 4th Grade Journal: Excerpts

(Prequel: No, this is not an April Fool's joke. Y'all know how I feel about those.)

Wow. Let me just say, wow.

When I went home a few weeks ago and found my fourth grade journal (which was a class-enforced activity), I knew there'd be some gems. But I've landed on a goldmine here, guys. Originally I was hoping for some hilariously baffled Mini Emily entries about "A Wrinkle In Time." But it turns out, I was probably so embarrassed by said bafflement that I hardly mentioned it at all. And what I did say was, frankly, pretty smart. NOT FUN, EMILY. NOT FUN AT ALL.

Luckily for you, me, and the state of this blog, there are other entries in here that are RIFE with comedic gold. I don't want to delay you any longer. Here we go.

Oh but first, assume [sic] for any journal misspellings.

Here we go for real this time.

8/31/1994
If I could go any where in the world I would go to Florida because I could go to Disney World and I could get a good tan. Or I would go to London but I don't have a reason why.

(Good God, I'm just imagining poor little 9-year-old Emily...bowl cut, wire-rimmed glasses as big as her face...laying out among the palm trees drinking a Shirley Temple.)

9/6/94
This weekend I went to a polo game with my friend. We did everything we could do exept watch the game. We colleted beer bottle caps, looked at the horses, watched around a week-old puppy and shared a cheeseburger & fries.

(I remember that entire day. That. Entire. Day. And can I say? Those are STILL my preferred pastimes to polo.)

9/7/94
If money grew on trees, every one would want one. When they got one they'ed all go shopping. Then the stores wouldn't have anything so we'd starve. Everybody would move, then those stores wouldn't have any thing. Soon the whole world would starve and the world would come to an end sooner than we thought. THE END.

(Wow, Mini Emily. Get a little more pragmatic, could you? Christ, I feel like I need an antidepressant now. But also...spot on. BUT ALSO, kudos for already knowing then vs. than. That's m'girl!)

9/9/94


(I'm showing you guys this one to prove WHY I am an advertising copywriter. That is me, scrutinizing a car based on the words in its TV ads. See?)


(I was an advertising whore, even before I knew was a whore was. Or what advertising was, actually.)

9/20/94
If Santa Clause came every day, my family would suddenly become poor, I wouldn't have any room too put my toys (I barely have any room now)and I'd be spoild.

(For a kid with a rampant imagination, I'm really hitting them out of the park with these "what if" prompters. Also, Mom and Dad, I hope you're seeing the responsible, selfless child you raisd.)

9/29/94
Last night we went to pick up my dad at the airport. My mom is just as near-sided as I am, so she wore my glasses. I couldn't see that the man in the gray jacket was my dad until he was 1 foot away from me! On the way home my sister and I started spitting at eachother.

(HAR!!!1 I don't remember this at all. And how surprised am I to learn that my mother used to steal my glasses in order to drive? I'll give you one guess.)

10/4/94
If there was no elavators, it would be very tiring and it would take alot more time. They wouldn't have one of the "Perfect Strangers" shows either.

(PRIORITIES.)

10/25/94
Red Ribbon Week is,
To teach you the're erresponsable.
If you're old enough, limit them,
(If you're not don't do them.)
To tell you the're not cool.
They won't help you relax.
It could give you cancer.

What are:
the're
them
they, and
it?
DRUGS! (don't do them)

(Well move over, Walt Whitman. Also..."LIMIT them"? Wh...)


Seriously, guys, I could do this all night. But I imagine I should span these bad boys out. But I PROMISE there is more to come if you want more.

Oh Right. You People.

Oh, heeeeeeeeey everybody. I know I've been essentially gone for a week. I would really like to give you a spectacular reason, like I was writing a book or I came down with the mumps.

Truth is? 90% of things happening in my life worth discussing are all work-related, so I basically can't tell you about my life. Which is WAY more annoying for me than it is for you, because I have SO MANY THINGS I WANT TO TALK IN ALL CAPS TO YOU ABOUT. AND I CAN'T.

The other problem is, I want to tell you about A Wrinkle In Time. I reread it for the first time since the 4th grade, and I was going to compare it to the journal entry I KNOW I wrote about it back then. But it turns out, I don't freaking have that journal like I thought I did. So next time I go home, I'm scouring our crawl space for a Kelly green journal with erasable pen scribblings, and you shall get, at the VERY least, an awesome drawing. And at the very most, some insight into how much I loved Michael D. (Because boy howdy DID I.)

I've also wanted to write an entry about why I still love Rosie O'Donnell despite the general public's disdain for her. But really I just want to say, "She's real, she's hilarious, and she's kind of a bad ass. Done and Done." *brushes off hands*

But I'm here. And I promise to post worthy things, which may be as soon as tomorrow. Who knows?!

Sigh, I'm sorry. I'm terrible. Bulldog puppy?



I grew my skin FIRST.

My Own Good Fortune

My fortune cookie just informed me that I will inherit a large sum of money.
Reasons why this is important:

1. It's been a long time since a fortune cookie has given me an actual fortune and not told me in so many words that I am "well-liked."

2. I'm pretty sure I've gotten this fortune before. Which means it HAS to be true, right?? And not that they recycle the same general blather to multiple restaurants?

3. I don't have anyone from whom to inherit a large sum of money (oh EXCUSE me, my family is peopled with hard-working, Main Street Americans who came to this country on the Mayflower with nothing but a dream and a fear of witches, so why don't you BACK THE HELL OFF) but if Gilmore Girls is anything like real life--and I'm almost positive that it is--there is always a possibility that my spunky-yet-responsible attitude will land me into piles and piles of money that I hardly worked for. So there's THAT.

4. The Dream House I created for an assignment in the 3rd grade had a "Gladiators"-style ceiling crawler (At first I googled "Gladiators harness". I do not suggest you do this.) which led into a Scrooge McDuck room full of money for me to swim through. A) Can you tell that my childhood imagination often fell just short of pure plagiarism? and B) This is still one of my dream rooms, physics of metal coins be damned! And when I inherit a large sum of money, why YES I believe I WILL be making that happen.



(PS. That fortune cookie is from Natalie Dee. Go to her.)

Hot Chocolate

Last week I bought something that looked magical: Trader Joe's peppermint hot chocolate, with little bits of real chocolate.


And how could I resist? From the adorable canister to the word "shavings," this thing didn't just call out to me, it taunted like a child who doesn't understand that their parent is ignoring them on purpose. "Want to buy me? Want to buy me? Want to buy me? Want to buy--" "For the love of GOD WILL YOU BE QUIET, MOMMY IS ON THE PHONE."

So I bought it. Brought it home. Tasted it.

And it was spearmint.

SPEARMINT? REALLY?? Really, Trader Joe's. I TRUSTED you. When you said pumpkin butter was good and I didn't believe you, who was right? YOU were. When you said I wouldn't notice how bad $3 wine was, who was right? YOU were. When you said chicken sausage should be available for the masses, who was right? YOU were. But now? Now I don't know what to think anymore. Will that box of organic vegan cookies be filled with worms? MAYBE! Nothing is right anymore! Up is down, left is right, PEPPERMINT IS SPEARMINT AND MY WORLD IS CRASHING AROUND ME.

Here's my other problem (I know, you're so amazed that I have this many things to complain about when it comes to cocoa): I have become unimpressed by powdered hot chocolate--NOW HEAR ME OUT. I recognize that if I melted down a bar, mixed it with some cream and called it cocoa, that it would be delicious.

But I'm talking regular ol' run-of-the-mill Swiss Miss. Is it me, or is it just not the same as it was as a kid? I mean, maybe it was the insane amount of marshmallows my mom added. Or maybe it was the fact that the cocoa was given to us after we came in from "hours" of "sledding" (aka "minutes" of "dragging my sister around on the sled like a dog because it's Illinois and our only hill is the converted landfill on the other side of town") but it seems like hot chocolate was just a million times more delicious than it is now.

I mean, hot chocolate used to be the saving grace in a world full of chaos. Adults got coffee at every turn, but what did we have to lift our spirits? A can-do attitude? Hardly. Because when your Indian Princess tribe (Another day. Another day.) is trying to sell Christmas trees to raise money for their next father-daughter bonding retreat and you can neither a) Pick up the trees because you are too little, b) Sell the trees because you cannot subtract yet, nor c) Play hide-and-seek amongst the trees because SOMEONE is an enormous party pooper, coughDADcough, you have one option: sit in the warm trailer and drink powdered hot chocolate through a coffee stirrer. It's not fancy, it's not made with a mother's loving care, but it does the trick. And it's why, whenever I burn my tongue, I hear the soft sound of Jingle Bells playing in the recesses of my mind.

But powdered hot chocolate just doesn't do that for me anymore. It doesn't entertain in the way that it used to. And even the Trader Joe's cocoa with its chocolate shavings, which sounded like the cure to my hot chocolate blues, seemed only okay.

Is it just me? Am I the only one who feels this way? Where has my childhood gone? Is it trapped, like a chunk of globbed chocolate powder in the coffee stirrer...of life?

Why We All Need Christmas

OH MY GOD, you guys. I'm back. And I'm EXCITED. Are you kidding me?? I get to come home from work and I don't have to go directly to bed? What IS this freedom?!?

But you know who is more excited than I am? Regina Phalange. When I came home she started running around the entire apartment and did a cow-jumped-over-the-moon jump over our queen bed. So yeah. I think she's happy.

As I ease my way back into the life of the blogosphere, I thought I'd share with you guys some thoughts reflecting where my mind is when it's not writing headlines: Christmas. Here's part 1.

I think everyone should celebrate Christmas. Hear me out; I promise not to go Bill O'Reilly on you. I think everyone should get behind Christmas, not because I think everyone should believe in Jesus, because the dude is not for everyone, but because Christmas makes cold weather SO MUCH BETTER. Sure, we all have to suffer in January. But why December? Why? December is cold and snowy and terrible. BUT. If Bing Crosby croons softly in your ear while you walk through that December weather? Not so terrible. Not so terrible at ALL, m'friends.

Lately I've been thinking especially about Christmas traditions; which ones have stuck around, which ones have changed, which ones I'm fine with losing. Especially since this is the second holiday go-around with Joe and I'm starting to realize that maybe I'll need to give a little, and do a few more of his Christmas things and a few less of my own.

I think my favorite Christmas tradition which I'd be sad to lose is Christmas Eve. In my mind, that's one of those traditions that's stayed true year after year. It seems that way, but if I really think about it, it's actually changed a TON.

When I was young, it was the one night a year that I was willing to get fancy. I had short hair for much of my childhood, and was convinced that I looked ridiculous in anything fancier than my dinosaur t-shirt. Plus! Dresses were itchy!



But on Christmas Eve, you endure anything. I mean, Santa's watching, people. Shove those feet into those Mary Janes, froof that lace collar and wait for someone to ask you if you're excited for Santa to come.

So we'd sit all politely and nicely at church, surrounded by people we'd never seen before but happy for the warm bodies, and at the end of the service everyone got a candle and lit it and we'd sing Silent Night. Well, everyone ELSE would sing Silent Night. My siblings and I were more concerned with keeping the wax from dripping onto our soft, defenseless hands.

Then, after the service, we'd all pile into the car (the one time that we all called dibs on the back seats so we could huddle for warmth) and our dad would drive us around town, looking at lights and stopping at the house of the professional ice sculptor who always made something mind-blowing.

Finally, we'd get home, put out the cookies and carrots, bounce off walls like Judy Miller, and burrow under our sheets, ready for the assured amazingness awaiting us the next morning.

But eventually it all evolves. The ice sculptor moved. Our hands became callous enough for the candles. And everything became a lot less about impressing Santa and a lot more about impressing Michael, the organist's son, who sings O Holy Night every year now (and hot damn DOES HE, might I add.)

I mean, things change. Christmas is 90% childhood memories, 10% butter and 1% a pain in the ass. I think we're all in general agreement on that. And even though the traditions we keep anymore might not be exactly as we did them as children, and even though being with Joe may mean that I need to reformat Christmas at times, somehow it's all still...nice. Right down to the lame stuff, like car commercials. Because even THEY have giant red bows and happy soundtracks, and even THEY make driving through the snow feel like some kind of wonder of December.

And whether you're Jewish, Christian, Muslim or indifferent, I think anyone should want to get behind turning December--horrible, thigh-freezing December--into a miracle.

3 Reasons Why Follow That Bird Scared Me and 3 Reasons Why It Was Awesome

I'd like everyone to come in a little bit closer today. Gather, gather. Sit up front. We're all a happy family. For we all have one common thread.

And that thread is: all of us--you, me, that guy over there--were emotionally scarred by the both terrifying and terrific epic film, the 1984 classic, Follow That Bird.

A refresher:


There were three things that made this movie terrifying:

1. My friend and confidant, Big Bird, is on the run. By himself. With no parents to lead him, and Stranger Danger at every corner.

Big Bird is supposed to only be 6 years old, by the by. What if that was me?? What if I had to start a life with a new family and they were terrible so I had to run away all by myself! It happened to Big Bird, it could happen to ME!

2. When Big Bird is blue.

Big Bird. My friend. My confidant. He is in a cage, and he is SO SAD, that he has TURNED A DIFFERENT COLOR. I didn't even know that was possible, but if Sesame Street says it is, THEN IT IS.

3. Do I have to say it? DO I EVEN HAVE TO SAY IT.

Miss.....Finch. If a scarier Muppet exists in the world, I have yet to see it.


Nope. Not as scary.


Not even close.


Nice try.


Nuh-uh.


Still no.


Close, but not them either.


AHHHHHHHHH! RUN AWAY!!!!!!

Miss Finch was perhaps the first villain I ever encountered in my young life. And I have been scarred to my soul. First, she rips Big Bird (friend, confidant) out of the warm embraces of Maria and Luis, then she plunks him down among a horrible, vapid family, and then when he tries to escape, she and her dark, soul-sucking eyelids chase him across the country! It's not enough that he is a child on the run, but he must be a HUNTED child on the run.

And I know I'm not the only one who has felt this way. Anyone young enough to have encountered this movie as a small child was petrified of this woman.

There are two things that are great about this movie, however. Scratch that, three things. The first is Canadian actor Dave Thomas. The second is the music. Specifically "Easy Goin'", the feel-good song of the bird, the children, and their farm.



Question: Did you and Laura figure out the harmony to that song and teach it to your friends so you could belt it out while walking through the nighttime streets of Champaign-Urbana, Illinois?

Answer: DID. WE. EVER.

Question: ...Wait, why were you singing this song in college?

Answer: Because I bought the movie for Laura's 22nd birthday, and (the third and final thing that is great about this movie) we made up a drinking game to coincide with it while we watched.

Question: Oh PLEASE tell me you still have the rules.

Answer: .....

Question: Emily?

Answer: ....

Question: You got distracted looking at the drinking game rules for Cash Cab online, didn't you?

Answer: Hmm? Huh? What? Oh, right! Follow That Bird drinking game. YES! Of course I have the rules. They are simple, and they are awesome. Here we go:

1. Drink every time they say "bird."
2. Everyone pick an extraneous and beloved Sesame Street character to follow throughout the movie, such as Grover or Cookie Monster. Whenever that Muppet is in a scene, you drink.

We may have had other rules, such as "drink every time you are so scared of Miss Finch that you can neither look away nor blink," but for the life of me, I can't recall any other rules being necessary.

So yes, perhaps I have been able to overcome such fears as becoming separated from my family and being forced to walk home. Now I can focus on the important things, like togetherness of friends and drinking alcohol while watching beloved childhood movies. I'd like to think I've become a real grownup.

On a separate note, does anyone want to create a Mary Poppins drinking game with me?

Fears and Facts

First, I must start this post with a little about podcasts, although that has nothing to do with what I want to tell you.

In iTunes, there is a whole “podcast” section. Click on it. There are, like, 80 billion (rough estimate) awesome podcasts out there for all your podcast needs. I mean, really it’s like recorded XM radio. And I think they're all free. So go there.

WHILST you are there, specifically look for This American Life and Stuff You Should Know (or click those links and get there faster.) These are two amazing podcasts. The former is like what this blog would be like if it were informed and written by someone who took AH Journalism class and had connections and were much, much better.

The latter, Stuff You Should Know, is basically like nerdery for the non-nerds. AKA me. Examples of podcast titles:

1. How Food Cravings Work
2. How The Hells Angels Work
3. How Kleptomania Works
4. How Braille Works

And the list goes on. Practically forever, and/or at least until 2008. SO! Why am I telling you all this?

I am telling you all this because I recently listened to a Stuff You Should Know podcast about quicksand, and I feel like my entire life is turned upside down right now.

Yes. We almost have a “making ends meat” situation on our hands here, people.

Turns out, it’s basically impossible to die in quicksand. Amongst all the reasons is that quicksand is never as deep as a human being. And even if you stepped in it, you’d basically just float at the top, not get sucked into it.

The thing is, besides having the malady of a weak bladder, I was also a fairly paranoid child. And after a few movies where people got stuck in quicksand (OR WORSE, ATREYU’S HORSE DROWNED IN THE MUCK AND OH MY GOD I STILL CAN’T HANDLE THAT) I was convinced that I would some day die from falling in a pit of quicksand. I didn’t know how or why, but the idea terrified me to my very soul.

But no one ever brought me the facts of quicksand. They just said “Oh, Emily. You won’t die in quicksand.” And left it at that, with no substantial evidence to change my mind! And just telling me that there is no quicksand in Illinois would have helped not at all because NO ONE SUSPECTS THE QUICKSAND INQUISITION.

It reminded me of my fear of robbers. I was scared to go to bed at night because I knew a Bad Guy would break into our house and steal all our things and kidnap me and my siblings. And you know what convinced me otherwise? My mom told me that since she and my dad’s bedroom is in the basement, that the robbers would come in those windows and she and my dad would just beat them up.

Bam, end of that fear. I mean, when you’re four, who’s more badass than Mom and Dad?

As I walked around Chicago, listening to the podcast, I had to keep pausing it in order to reflect on the MANY things I was scared of, if only someone had given me good reason not to be.

Like fire. I was sure that a fire would start in our hallway and none of us would be able to get out. And all I really needed was someone to stick a fire detector up there, assure me that a fire would start in the kitchen far away from us, and I would have slept like a baby.

Or escalators! I had a late fear of escalators, spawned from the 90’s show, “Rescue 911.” The thing is, I didn’t realize that a show with the word “Rescue” in it might possibly mean that everything would be okay. So of course I turned it off right in the middle of the reenactment, here



Instead of watching the last two minutes (which I just did thanks to the wonder of YouTube. By the way, STILL SCARY.) when the boy looks all healthy and rosy-cheeked again:



But, see, if someone had just told me, “That boy was fine, and it won’t happen to you because you are not SITTING on the escalator” then the fear would have evaporated in seconds!

Cold hard facts. That’s all I ever needed. Or, really, looking at all of these fears, all I actually needed was the internet. SO GET ON THAT, 1992.

Something "Special"

I know I've been discussing my childhood with you guys a lot lately, but I promise you will be happy you read this one.

A week ago, my parents brought me a little present. It was a "book" I wrote in the 1st grade for school. And as you'll see, it's Something Special.

Ahem ahem ahem...




WHAT THIS PAGE IS:
The front and back cover, a portrait of our family with our house in the background. There's Dad, Mom, Hannah (age 1), Katie (age 10), Emily (age 7), and John (age 4)

NOTES:
1) I would like to apologize to Katie for giving her such girth, although the side pony tail might have been accurate for 1991, apologize to Hannah for my crayon ineptitude which resulted in her turtleneck onesie and lack of nose, and to John for forgetting to give him pants. Although, again, that might have been accurate for 1991.
2) I'm also concerned that this happened:
Teacher: "Now, kids, this is an important book you're writing. So make sure you title it something special."
Emily: "Got it. *writing* Somethiiiiing....speciallll..."




WHAT THIS PAGE IS:
This is a bird's eye "vew" of me, as a baby, standing on the scale in my parent's bedroom and weighing the feather-light baby weight of 20 pounds. I assume, as a baby, I would need help standing by myself, so my mother is helping me. To the side, you can see the top of the light, which I had clearly asked how to spell, considering my random stab at "drassor."

THE TEXT:
"If I could... ...be a baby I wood be light."

NOTES:
I don't really know what to tell you on this one. I clearly phoned it in. That, or I had spent all my time getting a mental grasp of my parent's bedroom from a bird's eye view that I didn't have time to properly explain my reasoning behind dedicating an entire page to such thoughts.




WHAT THIS PAGE IS:
I am standing in a single file line outside before school. Jon O. is patting my then spiked hair and calling me "Spike." (Pure genius that one.) I am giving the kind of snappy comeback that truly comes after days of consideration, "Jon put a sok in it I meen you all redy got your underwer! not!"

THE TEXT:
"When I grow up I get funnyer and funnyer. I love being lughed at! I'm grat at being funny and I bet you now how funny I am!"

NOTES:
1) I remember being acutely aware that my example joke was not very funny, but I couldn't figure out how to MAKE it funny. Let's review the facts:

a) "Put a sock in it": Modern idiom I had recently learned. Always funny.
b) Reference to underwear in someone's mouth: I mean, how can you go wrong with that?
c) "Not!": Hi. My name is Emily, and my sense of humor spawns directly from Pee Wee Herman. It's nice to meet you.
I mean, based on that evidence alone, this joke just hit a home run--NAY, a grand slam. I don't know what I was so worried about.

2) My blatant disregard toward instruction.
Teacher: "Now this page will start with 'When I grow up...' and you'll write about what you'll be when you grow up!"
Me: "Yeah, eff that. I'm going to need an entire page dedicated to an underwear joke."
3) I clearly set this page up to draw myself in a long line of students, each with their own totally accurate caricatures. But once I had myself in there, I got through one more skirt before saying "Ehh, screw it. They get the point."




WHAT THIS PAGE IS:
This is Easter morning in our living room, as evidenced by the creepy painting of a marble splashing in oil we used to have. Katie is discovering the traditional egg-on-the-clock egg, and John has found one of the "easy" (read, BABY) eggs under the couch.

THE TEXT:
Ester is my vavrit thig. man I bet you don't know how special Ester is to me. espashle that Jesus rows.

NOTES:
1) Okay, I'm going to be straight up honest with you here. Ester had VERY little to do with Jesus rowing. And it had very MUCH to do with Cadbury creme eggs. But I knew, even then, that if you want to get in good with The Big Guy, you have to do all the right stuff. You can't call your brother "stupid," you have to pray before dinner and occasionally other meals, and you HAVE to appreciate religious holidays for religious reasons. Otherwise, as a 7 year-old who can think of nothing more wonderful in the world than finding various types of marshmallows in a colorful basket, you are going straight to hell.
2) Every time I read the word "espashle," I want to take little 1st grade Emily and squeeze her so hard, her eyes pop out of her little spiked head a little.
3) I must have just learned the phrase "I bet" from Katie or something. Clearly I was into it. I also like how I kind of sound like an old black man sitting on a bench telling my life story. "Man, I tell you what. You don't even KNOW."
4) Next to the marble picture is a little brown rectangle. I believe it is our doorbell, but to be honest with you, I STILL don't know what that brown box does. But isn't that a strangely specific thing to remember about my living room, considering I drew this at school? And how have I been so perplexed by something for almost 20 years without bothering to ask anyone about it?




WHAT THIS PAGE IS:
My father and mother are playing a board game (My mom is cross-legged and in a dress. Scandal!) and Katie and I are playing cards on our living room floor.

THE TEXT:
It's fun to play at or house but, we never have time! You know, mom gos to work dad to School we go to School and the little ones go to the baby sittirs.

NOTES:
1. I have to say, for someone who clearly didn't understand the concept that CRAYONS CAN'T BE ERASED JUST BECAUSE YOU MADE YOUR OWN HEAD ENORMOUS, it was a good effort for the commas on this page. I mean, 1 out of 2 ain't bad.
2. I 100% blame my father for the fact that I referred to someone 3 years younger than me as "the little ones."
3. That blue couch, man. I remember the day we got that couch. And I have to say--my rendition of it? Spot on. Spot. On. The thing is, though, that nothing else in that house even exists. We had no family portrait in which Hannah is falling into a small pit (I WISH) and we had no small windows with red curtains. So I ask you, tiny Emily: why the random attention to detail? Hmm?
4. Note that Hannah and John are no where to be found. That's because this picture embodies a happy place full of happy people, playing games and laughing into all hours of the night, as all the useless family members sleep.
5. I like that spelling and grammar were still just a shot in the dark at this point. I imagine myself like Pollock, just filling in blank space with splotches, hoping to appease the masses. "Capitalize here, lower case here...let's add some punctuation over here...that'll do, pig. That'll do."




WHAT THIS PAGE IS:
This is a white stretch limo with a red top pulling up to the red carpet, where throngs of smiling photographers await my appearance.

THE TEXT:
When I get older I hope too be the prasadint!

NOTES:
1. GOD I hope that's how Bush spells "president."
2. Okay clearly I never wanted to be president. Honestly, I think I saw someone else write that and just wrote it, too. At this point, I had no idea that I wanted to be a Muppeteer. I really just wanted to be important and famous. And who doesn't want that, ever? Can you blame me?
3. Also, can you blame me for being an annoying show-off who knows what the Big Dipper looks like?




Like me? "Like" me! --On Facebook, that is! (wakka wakka)
And don't be afraid to share or comment. That's what blogs are for.

Consider Me Miles Davis (Or: My Most Embarrassing Post Yet.)

I am not what you'd call a particularly outgoing person. I second guess myself and clam up in front of anyone who I find intimidating.

Sure, I have momentary spurts of outgoing insanity, generally leading to me embarrassing myself. Like in the 8th grade when we had a mock-discussion on the pros and cons of slavery, where I stood up and tried to shame everyone who was fake "pro slavery" with a heart-felt speech.

GOD. I relive that moment at least once a week.

But I'm really kind of shy most of the time. I don't tend to make friends with people until they come up to me and tell me, "We're friends now." "Oh...okay. Wanna watch Friends and write down all the funny quotes in a notebook for no reason?" "SURE!" *skip arm-in-arm into the sunset*

My shyness was especially apparent as a kid. I was terrified of authority. TERRIFIED. And of course, by "authority," I mean anyone over the age of 12. When I still had spiked hair and dressed kinda like a boy, we had to line up in two boy/girl lines for our first ever trip to the library (EXCITING!!!) So of course, I got in the girl line. I AIN'T NO BOY. Before we left, the librarian noticed me. Thinking I was a smart-ass kid, she scoffed, grabbed my arm and shoved me into the boy's line. And I was too shy to correct her. Me, the one who had decided that I wanted a TAIL, was too shy to actually correct someone who thought perhaps I was not a girl. So what did I do? I shuffled back into the girl line, hoping she wouldn't notice. Of course she did. Again, she thought I was one of those, so she dragged me back to the boys line. Aaaaaand I slunk back. Finally, the entire class erupted, "SHE'S A GIIIIIRL!!!" And the librarian was embarrassed beyond anything. Poor, poor, permed lady.

This was a problem for me throughout elementary school. Not the tomboy thing, the shy thing. It was such a problem, that I peed my pants once a year for five years. OH YES. I am about to chronicle my bladder problems for you right now. ENJOY.

1. Preschool

Nap time. We had to sleep on these little mattresses they'd make us put down. But one day, everyone decided that they'd all have to pee during nap time. Followers is what they were. Damn followers. NONE OF YOU HAD TO PEE AND I'M SURE I MET YOU AGAIN IN HIGH SCHOOL AND NEVER KNEW THAT YOU WERE THE REASON FOR MY DEMISE THAT DAY. Buttons and Bows. 89. I will find all of you.

So there was a string of kids going to pee, and the teachers were rolling their eyes and dragging the kids off and I couldn't manage to get in there before another kid decided it was THEIR turn to go next. Well, you can imagine what happened. That mattress did not stay dry.

The traumatic part, though, is that when my parents came to pick me up, my teachers CORNERED me with them and demanded that I admit to peeing the mattress. Well eff that noise! I'm not embarrassing myself in front of God and country! I denied that accusation tooth and nail. Until they did their STARING DISAPPROVINGLY trick on me, and I'm pretty sure I crumbled.

2. Kindergarten

Gym class. We were all sitting on the yellow circle, learning how to play The Lone Ranger (aka free-for-all Dodge Ball [By the by, it is the fault of my gym teacher that I thought it was "Hi-Ho silver" and not "Hi-YO Silver", so please take it up with her.]) So we're sitting there and she's talking, and I've got my hand raised. She ignores it. I raise it higher--maybe she didn't see it. Ignores me. I flail. Ignore.

Finally, I ran out of the gym. But it was too late. Not only did I pee my pants, but I did it as my entire class watched.

That's right.

And people wonder why I never dated a boy from my school through high school. "Don't go to the dance with HER, she peed her pants in Kindergarten and I SAW IT."

AND IT GOES ON.

3. First Grade

T-Ball. Oh yes. The first and last time I ever played an organized team sport. T-Ball, where my team name was "The Gold Team." Where I threw the ball to whoever seemed like they wanted it more. Where they put me in left field where NO 1st grader could hit it except one time, when of course the ball hit me in the face and I cried until every coach and assistant coach came out to inspect my teeth.

THAT T-ball.

So I hit the ball. Which was quite an accomplishment for me, considering the ball was stationary in front of me. I ran and made it to first. Again, an accomplishment. Uh-oh. That's when I realized it. I had to pee. But I couldn't stop the game--then the adults would yell at me! And I couldn't just run to the port-a-potty like that kid on AFV. Sooo...dance around a little. Yeah, that's good. That's working. Dancing. Dancing. WHY ISN'T ANYONE HITTING THE BALL SO I CAN GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE?? Oh right, because there's no such thing as "strikes" in T-ball. Dancing, dancing, dancing, annnnnnnnd....peeing. Nothing I could do. The first baseman just looked at me in amazement. But otherwise, no one noticed. For the rest of the game, I sat there in my pee-pants, acting like nothing was wrong. It wasn't until we got our fig newtons and Mondo that I worked up the courage to tell my Mom. "Oh, Emily," she said. As if a) I had done it on purpose and b) as if it was like you couldn't just throw the pants in the wash. JEEZ, MOM. There ARE strikes in "making your child feel bad for her bodily functions" and YOU are on strike 2.

4. Second Grade

This one was a little different. See, while we were watching some Discovery Channel show, I started to feel a little woozy. Miraculously, though, whenever I set my head on the desk, I felt better. My evil witch of a teacher, MS. WIEAND, (God rest her soul) came around and told me to pick my head up. Now granted: this is the point in which I should have told her that I didn't feel well. Meh. I was terrified of her. And I'm pretty sure that I thought I could just SHAKE IT OFF. So I begrudgingly raised my head and watched the rest of the movie, my stomach gurgling all the while.

Later, when the movie was over, Ms. Wieand decided that now was the time for her to clean out her supply closet. You know, while she had minions to boss around. So she's up on a ladder, nose deep in construction paper, and it hits me. Things aren't sitting right, and I have limited time. So I try to interrupt her and ask to go to the bathroom, and she doesn't hear me. I sit back down. Nope. Nope. Back up. But at that point? Too late. *Blarg-larg-larg-larg!* Right on the orange reading rug.

5. 3rd grade

I've mentioned this one before. We switched class for Science. We were in Mrs. Barkley's class learning about the different kinds of clouds. You know, talking about RAIN and SPRINKLES. I raised my hand to use the bathroom, and she didn't call on me. And I was too shy to say anything. Her loss. Left a nice present for her on my red-orange chair. And a nice present for whoever's chair that usually was. Whoopsee.

Luckily, that was the last time (save an incident when I was 13 at summer camp, but that wasn't shyness. It was a very intense scavenger hunt.) I think in general, I've learned to speak up for myself to people I find intimidating. Why just today, I made a snarky comment to my boss that I absolutely should have kept to myself. So...mission accomplished?

Thanks for liking me and "liking" me, guys!